


astalda

by pendragonfics



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caring Thranduil, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Female Reader, Post-Lord of the Rings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Reading, Reading Aloud, Romantic Fluff, Tenderness, The Hobbit/The Lord of the Rings Fusion, Thranduil Not Being An Asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:03:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22918162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pendragonfics/pseuds/pendragonfics
Summary: Reader, now married to King Thranduil after her brother takes the throne of Gondor, faces the difficulties that come after living through the battles, as well as adjusting to her new life as the Queen of Mirkwood.
Relationships: Thranduil/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 166





	1. strength

**Author's Note:**

> Just an angst-y/fluff-y story abt Thranduil & You xx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sister of Aragorn becomes the new Queen of Mirkwood and deals with the afterwards of living through the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a request from my Tumblr!

Being the younger sibling of Aragorn, when your brother finally spoke of your engagement to the King of the Woodland Realm, it was no surprise. Your lineage was something not to be ignored; it was a mercy he was allowed, seeing as he, now King of Gondor, had closely bonded with the daughter of Lord Elrond. It was your duty as a Princess to be married off. Thus, when it came to the event, you saw it only as an agreement of trade. Perhaps your friends, common-born women could marry for love, and celebrate a phantasmagorical union. But that was not you. 

It was luck that King Thranduil had already married before, and already had an heir. It was that fact in which allowed you to rest easily at night in the chambers adjacent to your King’s. You think back but two nights ago, when your brother’s wife had sat at your new bureau with you, braiding your hair for the ceremony. Her deft elven hands had crafted a crown from your locks, and as she went, she cast charms.

“ _Evening-star watch over my blood_ ,” she sang the words in her Elven tongue. You understood her words, but when it came to be conversing, you spoke broken Elvish, “ _and morning-star too. Bring her luck, health and wealth; Moon, may this be true_.”

You recited that prayer silently during the ceremony, and after, in the hours you spent in King Thranduil’s chambers. Maids had come and gone, and you left your food trays untouched, very much affected by the events that had transpired. You had known that this day would come, and it was something that you had accepted. But the rumours were just that, and what you had heard of the King of Mirkwood made you wonder _if_ he could love again following the death of his first Queen.

At least he was not cruel to you.

But not a week passed after the wedding, and your husband was at the door of your chambers. His knock was sharp and answering it, you were faced with the vision that is your husband. He was not wearing his silken shift, his great cape and crystalline hand-carved crown, but leathers, and boots. His hair fastened back, left his piercing eyes set like agate gems.

“My Queen,” he bowed his head, a courtesy, “As you now call Mirkwood your home, it is vital you can protect yourself.”

You felt quite underdressed, in only a cloth shift and slippers, and somewhat offended. Hadn’t he heard of your marksmanship, the battles you had aided in? While your brother had taken the sword, you had mastered the arrow and the bow. While you were not a part of the Fellowship itself, you had been at Battle of Helm’s Deep, and Minas Tirith. You had seen your fair share of bloodshed.

“It is not wartime,” you reply, quietly, averting your gaze. You had been married barely a week, and you did not want to offend your new husband “…and I am well-versed in long-ranged weaponry, as I’m sure you’ve heard from the ballads.”

“I have heard of your triumphs,” Thranduil praised, “ _however_ , this kingdom is different to Gondor. Danger can come at any distance, and arrows may not keep it at bay.” He licked at his lips, a pause, “I can train alongside you if it would please you?”

You take a deep breath and face your husband, your King. “When shall this training begin?” you ask.

“Dress yourself, and I will meet you in the armoury by the hour.”

He turns and goes with a flourish. There is no cape affixed to him, and without it, the flair is wasted. You close your chambers and quell your thoughts before following his instruction, unsure what to do. Following the war, you wore a mask of bravery; but your dreams plagued of death, and blood, and the things you saw. Sometimes, the clatter of cutlery sounds like the clash of swords, and the thought of it makes your heart race in a malignant way. But no matter what you feel about fighting, you cannot defy the instructions you were given, and you follow where Thranduil walked, to train.

It’s hard. Some days, you don’t rise from your chambers until he or the captain of the guard fetches you for training. It was a relief you were given a sword of which worked well for your strength and stature, but even holding it makes you feel as if you are back there. Sometimes as you duel with Thranduil, the sunlight catches your eyes, and for a moment, you almost believe that you’re fighting one of Sauron’s men. But no matter how hard it is, you cannot concede to the fear, and you do not tell a soul of the anguish you face.

Some days, it’s easier, but those come rarely. Most days, you sense that your husband can see your pain, but it is hard to read his elven face; he is practised through experience to guard his emotions. Though gradually, you are improving on your swordsmanship, and in the aching afternoons post-practice, you find yourself penning letters to your brother of the successes you are championing. Albeit, the details are thin, thin enough so that you do not worry him with the nightmares you have.

Once you seal your latest envelope, complete with wax, you turn to see your husband. His elven blood and wealth of practice allow his every step swathed in stealth, and your heart skips a beat, shocked at the intrusion. It has been scarcely a year since your marriage, the union of Gondor and the Woodland Elves.

“It is not my intention to frighten you, my love,” he says, the tenor of his voice even, concise.

“It wasn’t my intention to be startled either, my lord,” you glance to your hands. They wring in your lap, and you try your best to steady the thumping that goes on beneath your chest. “My apologies, but what brings you here? To my chambers?”

A year, and still, he has not pressured you to sleep aside him since the first night. Aside from the compulsory weapons training, he is a truly compassionate man, no - elf.

“I noticed the candlelight, my _astalda_. It is well into the hours of the morning.” He pauses his words and nears. A hand reaches out, and slowly, with a softness to it, caresses your face, tilting your cheek toward his gaze. “I must know…what plagues your mind?”

You lean into his touch, feeling the weight of your fears upon your shoulders. “I…they are ugly, my King, and not to be shared in the company such as yourself.”

He nods, understanding, and moves away. As soon as his touch is absent from your face, you feel the vacancy keenly and want for his touch to return. He finds a stool, a matching one to the bureau you have finished writing at. Not a year ago, you were in this same place, on the same furniture. It might not seem important to anyone else, but it afflicts you with how quickly time marches on around those who take no note of it.

“You know of all my troubles, as the rumours are warranted to somewhat of a truth,” he says, quietly. “I am the widowed King, whose son galivants around Middle Earth, unlike the prince he is. I am scarred by dragons’ fire, marred by the loneliness of this forest, and remarried to the blood of Men.” He smiles, reaching for your hand in your lap. When you respond to his touch, he intermingles his digits with yours, crisscrossing as if he will never let go. “Whatever it is that marks your mind, speak of it, and I will do my best, as your King, like your love, your husband, to relieve you of the ailment.”

You feel your throat grow thick with tears that daren’t fall. It takes a moment to compose yourself, but Thranduil is patient, ever waiting.

“I have seen horrible -,” you bite your tongue on accident, and wincing, you try once more, “I have _done_ horrible things in the wartime, my King. I have killed, and I see those that have fallen at my weapon in my dreams. Every day you have me learn to protect myself, I am no longer in your kingdom; I am returned to the bloodied battlefields.”

It seems that the breath that he has been holding onto is released. There is a sad look to his eyes, and wordlessly, he takes you in his arms, and you lean to his chest and release from yourself of all the pain that had been growing over time. Every sob wracks your frame, every tear falls faster than the last. Yet, your husband stays with you, holding you.

“I - how can I fight in the chaos of war? One sword, versus so many more? I am merely a mortal!” you cry out.

He holds you tight. “I feel the same way, my _astalda_. I will never ask of you to join me in battle, or to kill for me, but know this,” he retreats, both hands cradling your face. The tears that still fall pool into his long elven fingers, and he wipes them away, holding your gaze with his own. “I cannot have you die, by the hand of another, by war, by the time that ravages all living things. I will protect you from the latter, but my Queen, my love, you are the holder of your fate. You must be strong, strong for me.”

“You call me ‘ _astalda’_ ,” you sniffle, your hand touching his where it still holds your face. “I don’t know that word.”

He leans forward, and with his soft lips, he peppers your forehead, your nose, your lips with brushings of kisses. By the time you kiss him back, he tastes of your tears, salty and sweet, and you lap him in, wanting for more of him.

“It means,” he breaks from the kiss, looking to your eyes, “Strength. Because you give it to me, and it is who you are.”


	2. wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Thranduil take an early wintertime walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a request on Tumblr!

At first, it seemed like the training would never end. These days, the fear that had accustomed itself beneath your skin has slowly crept away, leaving you stronger, in both the body and mind. While still grasping at fluency in Elvish, politics in Mirkwood is beyond comprehension. However, since proving your strength as your husband’s _Astalda_ , you have spent many a day in the vast libraries in the palace.

However, reading _alone_ was never a pastime of yours.

As a child, you would read with your brother, his language colourful in painting illustrations history. When you stayed in Rohan amid the battles, Eowyn read to you of battles and triumph from her books. Before you were sent to Mirkwood from Gondor, one of your brother’s hobbit companions, Pippin Took recited poetry and his adventures that he had had with his friend Merry.

So why, as the new Queen of Mirkwood, would you spend your time any different?

On the days where Thranduil’s attentions were required by his council, you would excuse yourself from their gaze, and make way to the outskirts of the castle grounds. Sometimes, you would bribe a guard to allow you access to the city beyond the palace, other times, the guards would turn a blind eye…intentionally, or because of your proclivity to light footedness.

“Coin for your trouble?” you pass a pouch to the guard. Every week, there are eight gold coins, and a different baked good inside. The guard - a different Elf each time - takes it and thanks you, and allows you passage.

As you walk to the city square, you take in the scenery around you. While wintertime was nearly upon the forest, the evergreen trees clung to their colour while those who lost their leaves turned bare. There are fewer markets these days, and the shutters upon the buildings seem to close earlier in the day than before. But the people who would come to hear you read, they never failed to arrive on time.

It had begun, initially, by accident.

It had been two seasons since your union with King Thranduil when you had been permitted to access the village unaccompanied. It was a beautiful day - the smell of baked goods in the air, the cries of baby animals filling the forest, the sight of year-old elves greeting society for the first time. Such a youngling was lost last spring This baby was very young, and you had kept them sheltered, warm, beneath your cloak - and entertained. You had so happened to have had a book upon you, and the elfling’s mother found you reading to them some hours later. the stories that you read aloud in the novel you carried. Since then, you have returned each week to read new stories.

The session goes as it always does; the young elves tug upon their parents’ arms to gather in close, and blankets are laid upon the square to protect their limbs from the frost. Silence apart from the sound of your voice is the only noise heard, as you read from the pages you bring from the palace. This week, it is a tale of the adventures of thirteen dwarves and a hobbit, who reclaimed the Lonely Mountain from the clutches of an evil dragon. Whilst you came upon the pages that read of the goblin king, you felt your throat parched, and disposition tired.

“My apologies,” you bade, closing the pages with the marking, “I shall continue on another day.”

You bid the elves adieu, aiding those who brought floor-coverings in folding them, waving goodbye to the little ones. You finish folding a mat for a young Elf, however, just as you catch the eye of a familiar face from across the square. His hair is long, and his circlet catches the light just so. His brown eyes are deep, like a tankard of mead, and they watch you with every move that you make.

You say your goodbyes once more, returning the mat to the owner, and make your way to the handsome Elf, your husband, the King of Mirkwood. He wears warm clothes; a fur-lined cloak and tunic, the colours of ice white starlight, and a smile - but the latter is just for you.

“I did not know this is where you come to,” he says, looking about the village. Perhaps to him, it is a small place. Quaint. It is not grandiose like the palace of Mirkwood, nor that of Rivendell or the forest of Lothlorien. But this is his people - your people - and it is perfect the way that it is. The elves that mill about bow politely as they pass, but otherwise, continue their days whilst in the both of your presences.

“I cannot have you know all my secrets, can I, my love?” you reply, placing your arm in his. Thranduil smirks, and slowly, you walk arm in arm. He leads you from the town square upon the path you came on. “…now you know of my unseen activities, would you permit them to continue?”

Thranduil hums a baritone noise. “I don’t think of myself as a cruel husband.”

“No,” you respond. “You are not.”

Thranduil walks you both from the township, and yet, not to the palace. He leads you from the path to the stretch of meadow at the edge of the woods that graze the tree line. “You care for me in a measured way, as you do your son,” you say, softly, the words for his ears alone, and not for the trees in earshot. “You care for peace and honour, and you care for…the good of all.”

“When did you grow so wise, _astalda_?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“Oh, my love,” you intone, pecking his cheek with your lips, “The day I was born, the Gods above looked on down, and passed their gifts my way. But they squabbled over what should triumph!” you smile, recounting the story your mother had told you once, as a child, “One wished for beauty, or wit; another strength.”

Your husband appeared amused at your tale, and smirking, prompted you to speak further.

“But the last God in the pantheon, the smallest of all, spoke, and said to all: ‘She needs no gift, none! For she is from the blood of the Kings and Queens of Middle Earth, and fate in this child’s life is greater than any gift can be at all.’ But the Gods always gift to a child, and if an exclusion is a gift, they daren’t go against fate. I could have been born graceful or well-spoken, humble or skilled.”

Your husband looked to you, releasing your arm from his arm, but still held you. His fingers interlocked with your own, his touch holding you in a way in which tethered you, grounded you, kept you bound to him.

“They gave you wisdom?” he asked.

You nod, a smile upon your lips. “The hidden gift. Perhaps life has been better for it, too; for I am here, with you.”

Thranduil goes to speak, but he is interrupted. Or, more precisely, he interrupts himself; he sees something you cannot, and his dark eyes look to something that you cannot see. Afraid, you brace yourself, wishing you had more protection on you than the novel under your arm. But he does not call you to arms. Instead, you watch as your husband unlaces a hand from yours and reaches out -

“The first snowflake of the year,” he hums.

“Have I ever told you how much I care for you?” you ask your husband, watching his wonderment with your joy. His eyes flicker to yours, and warmth takes his face, a warmth that spreads from his smile to the crinkles around his eyes, that closes the gap between you, to take you in close in his arms.

“I do believe, my Queen,” he says, breath hot upon your face, before he kisses you, “you tell me every day.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Tumblr on as @chaotic--lovely, and if you want to request a fic, check out [@pendragonfics](https://pendragonfics.tumblr.com/request_conditions)! ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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